


à trois

by skaggirl



Series: this thing of darkness [3]
Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Henry's homicidal impulses, M/M, POV Third Person, Past Character Death, Polyamory, References to Addiction, References to Drugs, and A LOT of generalized anxiety, and a little bit of jealousy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 17:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16858555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skaggirl/pseuds/skaggirl
Summary: Polyamorous Jekyll/Gray/Frankenstein Apocalyptic AU set during the uninterrupted ‘Perpetual Night’. Everything is dying but Victor finds life in friends new and old. A melting pot of indulgent themes + practical angst.‘À Trois’ is where Henry is introduced into Victor and Dorian’s relationship, and everything becomes all that much more exciting. You can read this alone but you’ll have missed quite a bit from the first 2 parts.So the question became, why had Victor brought Dorian if he’d spoken so sweetly to Henry in his letter to him? [...] Dorian was beautiful and so, so lucky… and Henry had never given him permission to intrude on his life.





	1. à trois pt. 1

The being-back-togetherness worked quite well, at least on the first time through. Henry aired his open wounds, and when he cried that _he hadn’t heard a bloody peep from Victor in over five years_ , Victor wanted to bite back that it was never his responsibility to write, anyway; that he was not the cause for their separation, anyway; and _remember what you did_? But Victor did not say those things, because he would not have meant them had he said them. He had long ago forgiven Henry for his mistake. He might not have ever been angry with him to begin with. Five years ago seemed forever ago anymore.

But he did regret the choice to not write Henry. It was a product of Victor’s cowardice. He did not want to give Henry hope for their future… the irony of that lay in where they were now, together again because Victor absolutely needed Henry’s help, and might die without him, though Victor did not die in the end. His addiction was lasting, but he kicked it once again, if only a temporary fix. He kicked it because Henry told him to do so and watched him meticulously until he did.

And when he implied that Henry might be a killer, well… he knew the rage that Henry garnered. But he would not have said anything quite like it if he was not intentionally trying to hurt Henry. That rage was Henry’s greatest insecurity, and he’d cried to Victor and silently seethed enough that Victor had learned how to handle it delicately (because Henry was not a beast to be prodded). Victor only touched on these painful subjects when he wanted to see Henry splayed out beneath him and weak and enraged. Henry was quite sensitive to biting words. Still, they had not fought since before those five years of separation, and both understood that their bittersweet reunion was not an ideal time for unnecessary tension to brew between them. Besides, they were both thoroughly excited to see one another, though they concealed it well for that single week. They played the game until Lily was removed from it and then they pretended to be estranged once again, except that they no longer were. Victor only wished he could stop thinking of Henry like he had when he was just a boy, miraculously only five years prior to now. Being close to him made the wanting entirely brutal in its excess.

And when Henry left without them ever resolving that tension, Victor assumed that it was his calculated way of leaving their story to be continued, ensuring that they would have a moment like this recent one, when Victor might come back to Henry and they might finally make their amends. They did say goodbye, but could they possibly mean it? They rarely ever did. Mostly they would tease each other, pretend to be annoyed, pretend to hate the other, but they would always end up once again at each other’s arms’ length after no time at all. The five years between them were the only exception to the rule.

Unfortunately for Henry, Victor chose not to tell him about Dorian in their most recent correspondence. He neglected to share it when he asked Henry if he might visit him at his father’s estate. And so then he showed up with Dorian at Henry’s door, only to shock Henry into disbelief at the sight of two men, not just his close friend but another acquaintance he would have preferred to forget about. Henry wanted to hate Victor for doing that and so many other things, though he couldn’t possibly.

Before he wrote Henry, though, Victor had become almost properly vegetative in his new home. It was too comfortable for what he felt he and Dorian both deserved. They should have been halfway to insanity—in a way, Victor figured he nearly was. To make matters more helpless, all things seemed to be culminating into something far worse than ever expected. Victor had heard Mr. Lyle’s cryptic translations, and that was the root of the problem: not only that the world was certainly ending, but that he knew enough to suspect it had everything to do with his companion Ms. Ives. Victor hid from this knowledge and from sharing it with Dorian for as long as he could. He wished he could lament in the company of someone who did not love Vanessa like Dorian did. He _needed_ something more than his Dorian. It made him want to never leave his bed, the depressing status of it all, so he stayed under the covers each day and night. He wished dying in peace could be enough to ease his restless mind, but he persisted despite not wanting to. He could hardly remember the moment when things suddenly became so grim.

The beginning months of the apocalypse were easiest to pass. First, pray that the light return; second, cope with the fear through distraction; third, cope with the hopelessness by finding meaning.

It was because Ms. Ives would not write back to him that Victor first started looking. He hated himself for being isolated, hiding from his friends, and breaking contact with that tragic woman who he so loved like a mother, in their own strange way. He sometimes wished he would have died of an overdose while he still knew his friends as friends, and not as a distant family for whom he had no desire to entertain. He had left Ms. Ives alone, perhaps to be seduced by the devil himself, while he sat idle and allowed himself to be fucked by her ex-lover so that he might forget to care about anything else and feel less guilty. Those sensations were simpler than seeking repentance. He could not have helped Vanessa any more than a scared rodent could defend a scaly beast. She was a force bigger than any of them. At least that’s what he told himself.

He would _not_ tell Dorian what Vanessa was… that was one thing Victor swore eagerly to. If Dorian knew that Vanessa was in danger and that Victor was not doing anything in his ability to help her, then that would make Victor seem the tremendous coward that he truly was. He could not lose Dorian, even if he asked for more than him alone. He simply could not lose anything else, not now.

So Vanessa was why Victor began looking—because he had resolved to not do anything more productive, and to simply wait for death. Both he and Dorian were grasping for meaning in these final hours that only _seemed_ like weeks because they were on end. Victor was not so foolish to believe that Dorian would have desired him had the circumstances not been dire. In a way, Victor did not want anything to be changed. This dance with death made him all the more exhilarated with each new day. He was surviving them while both sober and unchaste, two things he had not been before the darkness—or, before the Antichrist, if that’s what this honestly was. Victor felt like a god himself. He felt defiant. He could barely remember the person he was before he was bound to this life of meaninglessness and carnality. He was coping with the hopelessness by finding meaning within it. Sir Malcolm was correct in saying that he had the soul of a poet.

Victor found meaning in Dorian’s crude photographs: those that hid on the shelves in his library, leather-bound and untarnished by old age and criticism. He had never met another person with as many photographs as Dorian had, nor as many portraits, and the collection would no doubt be intriguing to anyone. He thought the photo of Vanessa was the most attractive, as well.

While he browsed, Victor felt defiant like Lily looked in photos Dorian kept of her. He was not completely angry when he uncovered them, though he could tell that Lily was still known as Brona when they were taken, because of her dark hair and glowing complexion. Dorian was beside her in quite a few of the frames, too. He explained to Victor that he had known Brona, but not by name. He had only met her one time to take her photo. While Victor was undeniably jealous of the both of them, angry to have been tricked into believing that they were strangers, he still had no ill feelings toward Dorian for pursuing his relationship with Lily, especially since knowing how much mystery was involved in her character. Victor did _miss_ Lily, but he did not love her anymore. Loving her was not his place. And he had never loved Brona to begin with, anyway. He recognized all of these things because he had no choice but to not be stubborn about them.

How interwoven his affections for people were with Dorian’s own experiences astounded him. Dorian somehow ran within his same social group, though Victor had always considered him a thousand leagues away. They shared a mutual admiration for Lily, for Vanessa, for Sir Malcolm, for Ethan Chandler, and most recently for Henry. He could still hardly believe it; how much of his life was shared with the other. Victor hoped only the best for all of his friends, but he thought most often of Henry, and he knew that Dorian knew this, so he was grateful not to receive Dorian’s teasing about it. He regretted not being a better friend to Henry when he had the chance. He also thought of Henry in pretty, romantic ways now, greatly due to Dorian opening up that avenue of possibility.

Victor thought of Henry inside Dorian’s picture book, scantily dressed and captured perfectly in his youth. He wished he could see Henry once again entranced by one miraculous discovery. He hoped he could undress Henry and photograph him with Dorian’s camera. Victor had so much to share with him… that hope manifested in the form of another letter, which Victor addressed formally to Lord Hyde. In it, he begged that Henry kiss him once more, not like at Cambridge but even smarter. Then he confessed his sins to Dorian, who forgave all his lust. After all, sex was the closest thing to procreation, and therefore the closest thing to tangible purpose for any one purposeless person. Even they, the father of immortality and a prisoner of it, felt impermanent when trapped in the end time.

Dorian wanted Victor to have every lover under the sun (or lack thereof) if it fulfilled his desire to not fade away from life so deftly, in the quiet embrace of the only lover he’d ever had, eternally existing as a life unfulfilled and taken too soon. He would not allow Victor to be a captive, and he had told him that before. The letter that Henry wrote back arrived only a few days after Victor’s sent:

 _My sincere friend,_ it said, _I cannot pretend that I am not satisfied to hear from you. Unfortunately, you continue in your trend of waiting too long to acknowledge me. I hope someday you will properly pay respect where it is due. Do not forget that I am the most brilliant chemist you have ever known._ Ha ha.

_Luckily for you, I have despised this contemptuous place ever since I first set foot in it. I would gladly accept any guest who might cure it of its lifelessness, especially one who is as familiar company as you. I was told by the servants here that the air itself is pestilence, so, if you do plan to visit, please be safe outside. I shouldn’t need to warn you that hideous things lurk out there where you least expect them to be. I have not attempted it myself, but I should wish the best for you if you decide to make that journey. I am too much of a coward. You are not._

_Please do come soon, Victor. I miss you terribly and I can hardly maintain this life I am living in seclusion. I am sure that you desire the same as I do. Perhaps you desire more, but I should not turn you away if you talk openly about those things._

Victor’s favorite line was the second to last, which sparked his curiosity: _I forgive you for not writing. Come quick. We must speak more about it in person._ Then the writing skipped to the bottom corner of the page.

_With sincerest love, _he concluded, and his name, _Henry_ , was written in flowery lettering. Victor admired how Henry’s handwriting mimicked the soothing cadence of his voice.__

__So Victor knew that his friend had wanted to see him. That much was beyond what Henry could deny, and what he rationally would. He did not want to be angry with Victor after all the time he had spent in anticipation of seeing him. Both held firmly to the belief that their reunion would be a happy thing, especially amongst so much alienation. But Dorian wanted to join in the celebration, and Victor saw no fault in it, and Henry could not help but disapprove of Dorian’s surprise appearance when he’d not been given the proper time to prepare for it._ _

__They took a coach far across town in what was an impossibly quiet ride, then somebody greeted them at the door of the address that Henry had given to Victor on the day of his father’s death, the boastful few lines he scribbled onto torn paper that Victor wedged between the pages of his journal. That was how he assured that Victor knew where to find him, so he could be angry again if Victor didn’t write. His disapproval of Dorian was displayed first in his pretend attempts at being cordial. Henry was well-versed on all the stupid rules of propriety, though he never applied them flawlessly. One could always tell when Henry did not care for them—and this included most all people, aside from the few (namely Victor) who he knew well enough to like. Dorian, however, was equipt for his moodiness and took no offense to it. He’d dealt with Victor, who was no more an inviting opponent than Lord Hyde, and his long lifespan had granted him an incredible skill for patience._ _

__“Mr. Gray,” Henry started while first descending the stairway in his father’s foyer, dressed and behaving more like that wicked man than he’d ever wanted to be. He held one hand out to shake Dorian’s. “Victor didn’t tell me that you were going to be visiting as well.” He smiled, but there was a distinct bitterness behind his words. Henry would never be a polite man. He couldn’t force it._ _

__Dorian bowed in a playful mock fashion. It immediately annoyed Henry. “Lord Hyde. Last we saw each other, you were still called Dr. Jekyll.” Henry politely smiled, and Victor could read the blatant irritation in Henry’s expression, while Dorian was too polite to reference it, though Victor suspected he could sense it as well. They’d not even thought to prepare for a wicked Henry… somehow Victor had thought it an improbability in this scenario, though he was completely aware of how severe Henry’s rotten reactions could get. He’d been too lost in fantasy and not considered the consequences of his decision._ _

__Regardless, they tried their best to behave through the night. Still Henry could not warm up to Dorian; not during polite introductions, not after a light dinner, not when he offered them spirits and Victor decided he’d better not refuse this time. Henry could get ridiculous when he was drunk. Luckily, he was not an angry drunk, or else Victor would have feared for all of their sanity. The alcohol did loosen them, and it was just enough to transition the conversation into something less stiff, more familial. They became quite boisterous in comparison to how they’d sulked through the earlier hours. Dorian wanted to wallow in his own despair about the state of things, and they allowed him to do so. After all, there was no denying the pain. They all felt it deeply. Luckily for them, the rich were frequently spared the brunt of the suffering, unlike the sick and homeless in the cold streets._ _

__Soon they began to philosophize, as the three of them so liked to do, about the nature of the problem. Henry claimed that devil was partly responsible, but man had certainly caused this. Somehow he meant it though he was equally as atheistic as Victor. Both men asked Dorian about his religious views because they realized that they didn’t know. Dorian giggled and said that he’d tried a variety, but he’d never settled on any one… it was his nature only to completely believe in his perception of himself, which alone could sometimes be a struggle. Henry seemed to not want to linger on the topic. He had no verifiable explanation for this specific area of phenomenon, and so he was uncomfortable thinking about it. Victor also discouraged the conversation because it reminded him of Vanessa and terrified him when he contemplated too much over it._ _

__Victor also understood that Dorian could hardly get drunk, as he had learned farther back, though he allowed the other to pretend for Henry simply because it made things easier between them. It wouldn’t matter as soon as Victor was also intoxicated. He wished it would come sooner, but it fought him for some odd reason._ _

__The distance between Victor and Henry was more severe than ever before, which was felt through the obstacle of Dorian’s faux-drunken limbs swaying as he made passionate conversation. Henry had never seen Victor tangled up in another and so undeniably interested in another person as he was with Dorian. Henry had been there when Victor was most obsessed with Lily, too. He thought that this interest appeared deeper (even deeper than Victor might think) and that it was more honest than Victor’s interest in Lily. So the question became, why had Victor brought Dorian if he’d spoken so sweetly to Henry in his letter to him? He seemed to be taunting Henry by showing him his interest in this other man. They spoke of God, and Henry was far gone enough to admit to himself that he would choose to kill Dorian, would enjoy killing Dorian, if it let him erase the man from the history of tonight. Henry barely knew him but wanted to see him dead at his advantage. Dorian was beautiful and so, so lucky… and Henry had never given him permission to intrude on his life._ _

__And, now that Henry was imagining this brutality, he wanted to end his violent impulses as he’d done in the past with medicines. He saw Victor’s happiness and wanted to be happy for him, but then he could also appreciate how good the two men looked together, and he absolutely hated it. He still wanted Victor for himself, but he could deny his jealousy for long enough to understand how lucky he was to be alone with two people so separately interesting and desirable. He imagined how many people had likely wanted to be friends with Mr. Gray, who was so boyish and sweet, who looked like the image of someone endearing but obviously lustful, who might take your pain away if you asked him to. Henry suddenly became interesting by way of having this man in his house, subject to him. He could take anything from Dorian. God only knew how he wanted to take it all._ _

__Victor called Henry a killer, once, and he vehemently denied that… but, Christ, he did want to kill someone. He sometimes _ached_ for vengeance. The harshest serums only made it worse._ _

__He denied himself the pleasure of attacking, as he always did. Victor should have known better than to deliver him such an ideal vessel for reckoning. At the end of the night, he kindly offered the two a hand out the door, though he could barely move in his exhaustion and all of them came into agreement that nobody would be going anywhere else tonight other than upstairs. Victor stopped Dorian with a hand on his arm when the careless man began to suggest something probably unspeakable. He was only following the script he’d long ago written. He wanted to take advantage of their situation as he had once with Victor, but Victor would not let him—not with Henry, at least. It wouldn’t have worked had he been allowed to try it. It would have only created more issues for them, but Dorian was strangely naive to Henry’s predilection for jealousy._ _

__“Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Hyde,” said Dorian as he was escorted to his own room, which was curiously far from Victor’s own. Henry did not correct his excessive formality but encouraged it._ It was nice speaking with you tonight, Mr. Gray,_ he said.

And then, _finally_ , Henry could be alone with Victor and Victor with Henry. It was what they began the night wanting: that—privacy—and togetherness. Always togetherness between them, especially when they were not touching, and most especially when Victor was closest to someone else for reasons unbeknownst to Henry.

_But..._

“What are you doing?!” yelped Henry, prying Victor’s hand from his wrist like being scorched with a flame. They were stood in the entry to Victor’s guest bedroom, which was notably more inviting than Dorian’s. Victor was trying to insinuate that Henry should join him inside. He was aghast at Henry’s coldness, because this was meant to be the moment when he finally became welcoming.

“What? I want to speak to you,” clarified Victor. Of course, that was not the truth. Neither assumed it to be. Victor ‘desired more’, as Henry had delicately tread in his letter.

“No, you don’t. I haven’t any idea what’s gotten into you recently.” (Arguably, Victor considered, quite a bit had gotten into him recently.)

Victor scoffed and shook his head in disbelief. “I thought your letter suggested that you were as eager as I was to see you.”

Henry grimaced as he brushed the hair from his face where it fell into his eyes. Christ, Victor thought, he really hadn’t changed a bit. Every movement was as calculated as it had been before. Henry was attempting to explain himself but struggling for the proper filter to express it kindly. They were alike in how they struggled to say things, and he wanted to tell Henry to speak his mind plainly.

“I _was_ eager. But I invited you because I figured we had more pertinent subjects to discuss. Instead, you’re more content than I’ve ever seen you before.” Henry sighed and motioned in the direction of a window. “Do you not feel the surging of pestilence? Famine? Death?” His concerned eyes traced the windowpane like he might be seeing something under moonlight outdoors, though there was nothing to see. He quaked when he raved like this, and he tried to keep decently quiet, though he would have preferred to shout it if he could. “Are you so oblivious?” he asked.

Henry made a mockery of truly frightening men. He closer resembled a wounded child trying to defend himself. “Does this not terrify you?” he asked again.

“Of course it does.” Victor could not see why Henry would believe otherwise. That was all beside the point of them meeting tonight, and the true reason for Victor being here was that Henry wanted him here for his personal gain. He was offended that Henry would disregard that intent.

The younger gazed over his shoulder, and when he saw the still hallway that he expected, he shoved Victor backward and closed the door silently with them both behind it. When he turned again toward Victor, the latter was frozen in space, waiting. “Then _why_ do you come to me with this?” Henry whisper-shouted. There was no possible way in Hell that Dorian could hear him through nearly four walls, but Henry did not want to take the risk of queueing him in, regardless.

What _this_ was was no doubt something confusing. Victor hadn’t realized that his extreme calmness might be alarming, given his only reason to be calm was Dorian’s presence—perhaps Henry’s, as well. Everything else left in the world was shit. Hardly anybody could protest that position.

“I’m sorry if my composure surprised you.” Victor was clearly shaken.

“It did.”

“I’m sure.” But Victor still did not explain, nor could he explain. Henry had to pry his desperate fingers off again like they were molten now. This new Victor fancied a lot of touch whereas the Victor of the past was virtually impossible to connect with. Touch became reassurance. It was the only sensation yet to be grossly distorted by the passing of time around him.

Henry sighed once more, looking down at their feet. “I don’t know this person you inhabit, Victor. You have changed so much since the last we saw each other.” The worry and discomfort sickened him.

Victor wanted to say that Henry had done the same, but that was untrue. Instead, he said, “I have improved upon much of myself,” as if to frame it positively. His efforts did not help his cause.

“I cannot recognize you.” Henry sounded so _sad_ about it.

“Oh,” remarked Victor, and swallowed nervously. He suddenly wished he could take all that politeness away. He had forgotten what it was he wanted, and he wasted politeness on pretending to be someone other than who Henry sought. He pleaded to be once again on the receiving end of Henry’s affections, but their roles were flipped now. Dorian had allowed him this opportunity and he was already ruining it for himself. But he contemplated it and began again: “When everything started, I was not scared of dying,” he said. “It’s allowed me to confront my truer self because of that, and the ideas I have that used to linger in the foreground have been brought to the front. I have… honestly let go of my inhibitions.” Victor smiled meekly from pride and shame. “Have you ever done that?” he asked Henry, with wonder in his puffy eyes.

Henry smiled back delicately as well. “Then I am happy for you. But you know that I cannot do that.” Contrary to the other, Henry was scared. Like tying a noose to the cold pipe above his bed but not intending to truly hang himself. He only ever wanted to catch somebody’s attention. Now he trembled like a child.

“Why not?”

“I would be a worse person for it.”

“I don’t believe you would be.” For once, Henry chose not to stop the other from putting hands on him, and he did it aptly, slowly. He led cold fingers up the sleeve of Henry’s shirt, though Henry was apprehensive but trusted Victor enough to be pliant for him. He knew it was ridiculously naive to trust Victor after all he had lied about and the hurt he’d intentionally caused, but Henry deemed himself an optimist, surprising as it was, and this was one case where he wanted only to believe in the best possible outcome.

In the past, he had made Victor into the device which he used to escape from the ephemeral. His comings and goings were minute because he was in this room now with Victor alone and nothing in the world was stopping them from saying or doing what they desired. This was his fantasy, so he despised his body for being so hesitant to conform to it, and he shunned his mind for being so apprehensive. He angered himself by not being willing, at least not yet.

When Henry didn’t respond in any way to his touch, Victor worried that he had severed his chance completely. “Tell me what I have done to make you not want me like you said before.”

That nearly enraged Henry, for a reason he was unsure of. He pushed Victor abruptly away from him and went to sit at the end of the chaise longue, some fancily upholstered token that barely suited him but certainly his predecessor. Henry held his head in his hands and groaned loudly. “You exhaust me with this,” he griped. “You are unrelenting.”

“And you are excessively dramatic, as always. Should I remind you that you begged for me to come soon? And now that I’m here, you pretend to want me to leave… or at least to want me to stay far away from you.”

“I asked for the person that I _believed_ you to be.”

“And who is that?”

“The fascinating one!” Henry stood from his seat and encroached upon Victor, pointing a finger at his heart. “But, you? You are a _simple_ man with _basic_ ambitions.” That was the metaphorical straw that broke the camel’s back—Victor hated hearing Henry nag him about how disinteresting he could be, as if that accusation could possibly true. Henry had always pretended to hate his poetry even though he truthfully swooned to the same words. He thought that romance was an imbecile passion. He thought that brilliant people should focus on rendering thoughts that would change the course of all mankind, and that they should give up wanting simple things as well.

Victor was intensely infuriated by the hypocrisy of what Henry was telling him, as if he did not once choose to nearly kiss Victor because he had wanted it the same as he did. They were absolutely equals and there was no use arguing over which of them was the truer individual or the more genius. Victor spoke so aggressively that Henry nearly lept out of his seat. “I don’t deny that I have carnal needs! That is why I must fulfill them, and not deny them like you always have!”

They both approached one another with claws out, not willing to let the argument simmer.“Will you not allow yourself the decency to be subtle about those things, at least?” Henry rose and approached the other again. When Victor began to speak his next words, they must have been only a few centimeters apart.

“Do you think I should be ashamed of caring for you?”

“No.”

“Then do you not feel the same way about me?” he asked. He was genuinely inquisitive, because he was struggling to understand what Henry wanted from him if not what he had seemed to want before.

“Of course I do,” Henry answered truthfully.

“Then why will you not let me touch you?” Victor sounded more accusatory than he wanted to, but he’d said it and could not go back on his actions. Henry subconsciously took a step away from him and Victor felt the hollowness of abandonment. He tried not to think too much of it as he grabbed Henry by two shirtsleeves, pulling him back in against his better judgement. “I want to kiss you,” he lamented. “Please let me kiss you.”

Henry breathed so shallowly that Victor feared he was hurting him. His eyes were subverted, and he veered his head to face as far away from Victor as he could look, silently descending deeper into himself than he could surface from any time soon. It was all too much to comprehend so suddenly. He’d not known Victor would show up today, nor that somebody else would be with him. He’d not been warned about the anger. He’d not been offered anything in the way of easing his mind. He wished he could explain this to Victor, but he didn’t have the words, and the worst of it was that Victor probably thought he was lashing out.

He left Victor alone in that room once the other graciously let go of him. At least Victor could sympathize enough to let him go freely, he thought, but he also believed that he might have deserved worse, if only because he could be so ridiculously cruel at times.

Passing by Dorian’s room, he considered the earlier moment when he’d seen Victor and Dorian together and wanted to do anything he could to replace the latter. He was so selfish to want to hurt Dorian only to claim something he’d already been given freely, which he apparently did not truly want, not in this physical realm where he was required to _prove_ to Victor that he still loved him. He’d never stopped, but his actions implied that he’d never started. The hallway was quiet and cold as everything else and he wanted not to be lonely again, only alone with himself. He’d thought he hated the depressing stillness until it was disrupted. His words and Dorian’s sultry looks and Victor the only body balancing every quip between them, like stones into still water, and he couldn’t float anymore, and he was growing tired of swimming.

Which was why he slept alone though Victor was so few steps away. He shivered under his bedsheets, but he figured he was living a better alternative to crawling into Victor’s bed and having to explain himself so he could hold the man close. The dinner he had had prepared for them that night was insufficient, as were most meals nowadays, so his stomach ached and made him curl in on himself. He could handle the small pangs. And Victor and Dorian were far better equipped to deal with sharing resources, so they slept soundly in the bitter cold. 

Cruel things heaved and contorted their ghastly bodies in all the dark streets of London, where the whores and the homeless were now virtually nonexistent, not for lack of concern from the few people who dared to visit vacant lots in search of something they were bound not to find. These shells were remnants of the past, but that past was somehow only months ago, perhaps weeks ago when they’d first been abandoned. No rational person spent a second longer away from sanctuary than they needed to earn a day’s living. Henry missed the days when people feared the Ripper, and not fabled inhuman beasts that seemed far more impending than a lone person with a unique bloodlust. Henry was not religious, but he might have pledged devotion if something gentle promised to save him. His mother would have taught him prayer if she’d been given the chance. All that he’d learned in college was immaterial in comparison.

Henry had anger, but, most importantly, he also had fear… and sometimes he was consumed by it. 

Sometimes, when he woke and saw nothing—not even the backs of his hands when he raised them up to his face—he began to think he was stuck in the midst of constant nothingness, and that scared him more than waking up alone and thinking that he was bound to live this way until he died. 

He could easily be alone. But living with himself and nothing else meant madness was bound to overtake him, and he did not want to deny that inevitability any longer. He only had to forgive himself for long enough to speak to Victor, now, and forgive Victor for long enough to forget what the other had done to him, as well. He had nobody but Victor, but that was not a crutch. He still loved Victor and was loved in return.

Sometimes, in the morning when nothing had changed, Henry could not tell the passing of time and he worried that he had slept through entire days worth of anticipation. _What was any of it worth?_ , he thought, over and over and over again until exhaustion. His conscience had forever been a welcome enemy of his, and he’d somehow become a prisoner to it.


	2. à trois pt. 2

They existed not in the practical, the three of them: Dorian, Victor, and now Henry. This part of them being together at once was an unspoken agreement between them. They existed not to behave now like they might behave to society, and they needed not worry about defying expectations, because there were hardly any left to defy. Everything was confusion… and yet the fogginess was so comfortable because it meant they could be anything without fear of irrationality..

They could be anything they wanted, such as friends and acquaintances spending long days together in relative quiet, in anticipation of whatever might come and change the steady course of things. They drank again in the morning, but it never _felt_ like morning without the sunrise, so Henry used that as justification to drink more than he needed at such incredibly early hours. Dorian joined him because he thought drinking was fun.

Alcohol was enough excitement for exhaustion to become secondary. It tasted like the scent of antiseptics and Victor had always hated it for that reason, because it never warmed his stomach as much as made his cheeks hot and throat dry. Dorian, naturally, loved it despite that—he favored sweet wines to liquor simply for how indulgent he looked to be drinking them. Like a fancy creature out of a book.

Strangely, Henry was the only one of them all who had no qualms about getting ridiculously drunk, and even did it frequently (though mostly on his own). Alcohol was enough distraction to foster an outright denial of all that he was at fault for. All that he could manage… those things seemed simpler when he was not of “sound mind”. As if his mind was ever sound.

Victor left his assigned bedroom in the later hours of the morning, on some hour further into their visit than he might guess if asked how long they’d been lingering. He wandered toward the source of chattering and found a servant woman clanking dishes at the kitchen, who pointed him toward two familiar men sharing brandy in ornamental glasses. It was a ridiculous sight to behold. This Hyde estate was so lavish that Victor almost hated himself for being a part of it, but he reminded himself that Henry was no worse than Dorian for having his fortune. Victor himself was being integrated into high society by proxy of being these two people’s guest. Hell, he was just as much to blame as Henry for endorsing the rich—he thrived off of Dorian’s ridiculous money, and never did he complain about it.

“Drinking on an empty stomach?” Victor announced himself to his two friends. They looked impatient before noticing him, though there was absolutely nothing awaiting either of their attention. At least, there hardly could be.

But Henry knowingly smiled, and Dorian leapt from his seat like a woman might play coy to a much more charming man than Victor was. He still struggled to see what the other admired so much in him. “Dr. Frankenstein!” Dorian exclaimed and grabbed Victor’s arm to lead him to the table they’d been sitting at. “I’ve been explaining our living arrangement,” he said.

For a moment, Victor thought he ought to hate Dorian. The other sensed his discomfort with the subject and tried to clarify. “I thought Lord Hyde might like to understand why it is that I’m inviting myself into his home so rudely.”

How _unique_ of an arrangement it seemed to be depended on how much information Dorian chose to disclose, so Victor looked at him with confusion and fear. That Henry was mostly peaceful was a good sign that Dorian had not shared too much, but Victor suspected that he was already sure of their secret romance, though he probably did not want to cope with the thought. Victor suddenly felt terrible for delivering this extra burden for Henry to manage. 

“I told him that I’ve provided the resources and you’ve conducted the research. On the subject of immortality, that is.”

_Ah_ , Victor thought. Quick relief fell over him.

“It is a subject I’m all too familiar with,” said Henry, with the faintest suggestion of jealousy.

Dorian boasted about how much they’d progressed since starting, which was hardly the truth. Victor’s best work had already been done on Lily, and Dorian’s type of immortality was something entirely different, so Victor was not going to bother himself with solving it. Not all of it was a lie, though. They had delved quite extensively into reanimation. Those topics excited Dorian after his relationship with Lily.

They all three sat at the small table, elbow to elbow. Victor felt almost confronted by the positioning of their bodies toward him. Guilty to sit amongst two lovers.

Dorian continued: “If I had known better, I might have asked for your professional contribution, Lord Hyde. You must be just as proficient as Victor is.”

“Well, I’ve abandoned the subject,” admitted Henry.

Victor scoffed, not in a way that was intended to offend. Sometimes he meant nothing of a thing and then ended up hurting another person because he was careless. That was a fault of his: poor restraint and an eager running mouth.

Both Henry and Dorian looked at him as if he was trying to cause a disturbance, and though he wasn’t necessarily _trying_ to do anything, he did invite the attention (he had barely touched Dorian since they’d arrived and Henry was refusing to pay him any mind). “What?” Victor mumbled, though he didn’t need to ask what they were thinking.

Henry looked at Victor, then at his other guest, who was certainly immersed in the tension. “Mr. Gray,” he requested, “May we speak alone?” Dorian was confused for a moment before realizing that the ‘we’ in question was not involving him, so he giggled at his own ridiculousness and excused himself from the table, and shamelessly took his drink with him.

When the other two were alone with little but white noise, Henry took Victor’s hand in his lovingly. It was almost too kind for what Victor imagined he deserved. As if it might help his case, he’d been avoiding the other man since his wants were denied, but his childish avoidance only made matters worse.

“Are you going to ask me to leave?” he muttered.

Henry shook his head and averted his eyes sort of sadly. “No, but if you think you should leave—”

“I’d like to stay… but I suspect I make you uneasy.”

Henry’s fingers overturned his hand so that he could examine Victor’s wrists again, like he did when Victor was using morphine and the veins looked darker with tar-thick blood. They were less prominent now, but he suspected that Victor’s body would always wear the abuse of his addiction. He traced the faint line of one vein with his thumb and sighed. 

“I’m not angry at you, old boy.” 

“Perhaps you should be. I am your guest but I haven’t given my full attention for even a minute.”

“Then what is this you’re doing?” He didn’t remove his hand like Victor suspected he would, which only teased him with the suggestion of a closeness they didn’t have. The thumb moved over his skin absently. “Were we not alone last night?”

Neither could answer. Theoretically, these moments alone with each other should have been _enough_. But a separate presence, something secretive, filled the space between them. It was not a comprehensible demon and it inspired discomfort and distrust. It was desperation. Pain. The veil of a ghost that separated them by mere centimeters. 

Whatever chance they’d had at one time, to be honest and to please each other in the ways they wanted, seemed to have dissipated as soon as they’d confronted absolute reality. Honesty was a fantasy too pure to be real.

“I worry so much, as if I’ve ruined it all,” said Victor.

“Such a thing…” A non-platonic relationship? An essential bond? Henry struggled with expressing himself inexplicitly. At least they understood what they were negotiating. “I’m not sure that there is a way for that to… thrive… between us,” Henry explained.

Victor was bitter, restless and confused. He’d tried to be civil but was eager for Henry to say anything that might make complete sense to him. He was first to pull his hand away, disappointed.

“We’re moving in circles.” Victor huffed. As it had been in the past, it was quite apparent to him that Henry wanted the same as he did. _Love_ was an extreme version of it, but he was beginning to believe in that as a possibility. When he spoke to Henry, even now that they were arguing, he felt more at home than he did with the sober family he’d been left with after his mother passed. Never before had he understood a person as he did Henry. Not Dorian, who excited him endlessly. Not any number of his friends. Only with Henry could he speak his mind and never be asked to explain himself. He could share any embarrassing or dark truth with him only to be met with something more horrific.

So this talking in circles, avoiding the truth of the matter, could only possibly be a tactic for halting the progress of their relationship. He would not be confused about Henry’s intentions unless Henry particularly wanted him to be. So what motivated Henry? Fear? Or disgust? What had caused such a drastic shift?

“I’ll ask you one thing and you must promise that you will respond with the truth.” It was in hesitant agreement when Henry nodded but looked far from eager.

“Have you never thought fondly of this darkness, because it makes hiding easier?” he asked, clutching the blunt edge of the table. His guess was that the greater part of Henry was concealed, and that he’d only been granted access to it in fragments—splintering fragments that frightened and sometimes and excited him. 

“Have you found relief in baring the side of yourself that never belonged in the light?” Henry could never deny his sinfulness.

“Victor…”

“Because—you understand—the world is no longer looking at you, and I am here because I can stand to see you and even think that you are more charming than before. And I want to see you not when you are pretending to be something you never were, but as you are. As the darkness allows you to be.”

“Your mind is perverted to want that, old boy,” Henry said. He was taunting—bitter, for some reason of insecurity, that any person would care to know more of him than the pleasantries.

Henry just barely laughed, and his breath smelled like Port and Victor did want to drink it in, of course he did, but he realized that Henry’s hands were now shaking… not from the urge to hit Victor but from the anxiety that willed him not to. His nervousness was so apparent that the other was surprised that he’d not noticed it sooner. The poor man had made a wreck of himself so bad that he’d learned to conceal it perfectly.

He admitted shamefully, once he realized Victor was making note of his jittery movement, that he apologized for his actions. “You asked me to answer your question and I didn’t.”

Yes, of course he hid. He was always hiding–for as long as Henry could remember, he’d been told not to be half the person he was. But had it occurred to him that he need not hide if the entire world was transforming itself to reflect him? Had he thought to look again at Victor as he did in the hazy evening on the lawn at Cambridge? Had he thought that he could get away with acting on his desires?

Henry contemplated all things that had culminated into this moment where both acted so miserable, but he felt something foreign. Henry was pleased with it, and he suspected Victor was, too: that they were arguing from a place of consideration. He hadn’t had a single good thing to pay mind to since the day his father died. But, with Victor here like this, he suddenly meant something to someone other than himself. He would do anything to have a part of himself belong to another. And Victor was willing to uphold that.

“The darkness is a terror to all of us. Mostly I just want to be done with it.”

“And go back to life as it was before?”

“I don’t know. At least we had purpose then. What do we have now?” Cold, dank, emptiness... “We are going to die.”

Victor chuckled as Henry continued to soften to him. “We were going to die before, as well,” he said smartly. All people save for the undead ones were victims to this fate. They’d had this conversation so frequently before, it seemed pointless to broach the topic again. To give moment for pause when talking about life or death was a more powerful thing than to worry over it.

“Henry, I’ve said that I want a more affectionate relationship with you and I believe that you want the same.” If not because of how he outwardly expressed romantic attraction to the other, Henry was obvious about his desires because of his sincere and loving devotion. 

“I do,” declared Henry, his pulse beating in his throat. He was grateful for his half-drunkenness. Otherwise, he might have fled again.

“We should be more grateful to have reciprocity like this. We shouldn’t argue as often as we do.”

“I am grateful. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I know.”

“Then must I do more to prove myself?” Henry asked apprehensively. If he could postpone the inevitable for one more moment then he would be satisfied with his situation.

“I won’t ask you to do anything that you don’t decide for yourself,” said Victor. He prayed Henry would have the courage to try the one, foreign thing that he had seemed so eager to attempt: a kiss. Just enough to convey that he wasn’t limiting them both to delicate touches and Victor’s pleas.

The other was so tragically scared, so discouraged, that he could only think about how ridiculous the concept of romance was that these physical rituals were considered necessary to communicate it. He appreciated every part of Victor, not only regardless of sex, but exclusively because he’d never had sexual intent toward him. Not once… but in the back of his mind where he longed to see every natural part of Victor.

Victor drew distance between them. Exhaled. And finally asked, _did Henry trust him completely?_

Of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy oh boy has it been a long time since I updated this! Unfortunately, life comes first and my life has been... no more hectic than normal, tbh (I'm just bad at time management). I know there are a few people who were loyal to this series and I really hope that, if one of those people is you, you don't entirely hate me for putting pause on this fic! I still love this ot3 and they still have a vast story to be told, spanning many lifetimes and many loves.
> 
> Also: sudden but expected sexual situations coming in the next chapter. Yeehaw.

**Author's Note:**

> Excuse me but I was tagging this and it occurred to me how weird "Doctor Victor" sounds when used to address Victor Frankenstein and now I'm laughing at how dumb I am... lmao. So I think this is gonna be my favorite part of the series so far! Obviously it's gonna be heavily focused on Henry and Victor's relationship, since Henry's my fave and Victor's been established as the most central character up until now. I don't wanna forget about Dorian though! 'Cause why else would I entertain the concept of polyamory if I wasn't gonna go through with it? Please.
> 
> Feel free to read into these characters whatever you see fit. I did intend for Henry's reaction to Victor to read as a brief anxiety attack, and you can interpret that as having to do with his relationship to sexuality, or having to do with his relationship with Victor, or whatever else you want! I do quietly allude to the concept of both Henry and Victor being on the autism spectrum, which can mean a multitude of things for how a person might identify with their sexuality. Just know that Henry and Victor will have sex in later chapters, and both of them will enjoy it, but that shouldn't disrupt the possibility of Henry being on the asexuality spectrum as well. Of course, not all autistic people are asexual, and not all asexual or autistic people have the same experience with sex as other asexual or autistic people, etc. I'm just tryna create some complexity in these characters that I personally find intriguing! If you don't agree with my interpretation, I don't mind so long as you enjoy the story!


End file.
